


lover be good to me

by camellialice



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Thirsty Quentin, gratuitous shirtlessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 16:24:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18641746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camellialice/pseuds/camellialice
Summary: Eliot asks if he can borrow Quentin’s shower. Quentin, wanting to be neighborly, tries to repress the enormous crush he has on Eliot. Things spiral out of control from there.





	lover be good to me

This is what Quentin knows about his neighbor:

  * He lives in apartment 2C
  * His name, according to the packages that sometimes appear at his door, is Eliot Waugh
  * His morning alarm goes off at 7 am on weekdays, 12 noon on weekends
  * He has no roommates or pets
  * He seems to have a party at least once a weekend
  * He either owns at least one thong, or has a female friend he’s very comfortable with
  * He smokes
  * He’s the single hottest person Quentin’s ever seen



Quentin has gleaned all of this from shameless snooping and the coincidences of proximity (the thong, for example, he discovered in a laundry mishap). He has no real relationship to Eliot Waugh, aside from brief exchanges of smiles when they both happen to step out of their apartments at the same time.

In some way it’s easier that Eliot Waugh is just an unspeakably gorgeous mystery man at the periphery of Quentin’s life -- it makes him untouchable. He’s so far out of Quentin’s league, they’re not even on speaking terms. And as long as it stays that way, there’s no risk of Quentin’s heart getting broken.

The only problem: Quentin has just opened the door to find Eliot Waugh standing there, about to knock for a third time.

“Uh,” Quentin says, scrambling to recover some thread of connection between his brain and his mouth. “Hi?”

“Hi,” Eliot says, and smiles widely. Charmingly. “I’m Eliot, I live across the hall?”

“Hi,” Quentin repeats, because it’s still the only word really available to him, and it hasn’t failed him thus far.

“Listen, my shower’s not working and I have a date tonight. Could I possibly use yours?”

Quentin experiences the full spectrum of human emotion -- confusion, hope, horniness, jealousy, dismay -- and realizes that he had been so distracted by the surprise of Eliot’s face that he hadn’t even noticed the towel and bathroom caddy he was carrying.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, because he is neighborly and also because he literally can’t bring himself to say no to Eliot Waugh.

Eliot grins and thanks him and Quentin shows him to the bathroom, highly conscious that his apartment is a mess at the moment and praying that Eliot won’t judge him.

“If you need anything,” he says, because it seems like the polite thing to say, “just…”

“Give you a ring?” Eliot asks, eyes twinkling in amusement.

“Mhmm!” Quentin nods and practically runs out of the bathroom.

He spends the next 15 minutes trying to think about literally _anything_ other than the fact that Eliot Waugh is currently in his shower. Naked. Eliot Waugh is naked in his apartment. Eliot Waugh is naked on the other side of that door, just 15 feet from the couch Quentin’s sitting on.

Eliot is singing. The sound is muffled by the roar of the water and the bathroom fan, but the snatches of his voice Quentin hears are lovely.

Eliot Waugh is singing, naked, in his shower.

Quentin reminds himself over and over again that this is in preparation for a date with someone else, with a person who is not Quentin. Eliot is not here for Quentin, he’s here because Quentin happened to have the nearest available shower. There’s no need to make this a bigger thing than it is.

Eliot steps out of the bathroom, and oh _no_.

“Sorry,” Eliot says sheepishly, “I forgot to bring a change of clothes.”

He’s wearing a towel but of course it’s slung low on his hips, of course his chest is bare and beautiful, of course the only obstacle between Quentin and a perfectly naked Eliot is a small thin scrap of fabric. His hair is still wet, brushed out of his face save for a few errant strands hanging over his brow. A few drops of water are pooling in his collarbone.

Quentin reaches for the glass of water next to him and tries to take a gulp of it before realizing that it’s empty.

“Thanks again,” Eliot says.

“Anytime,” Quentin breathes out. “Have a nice… date.”

He waits for Eliot to leave the apartment, then walks into his room, and flings himself face down on his bed.

 

The next day he gets back from an early morning lecture at the same time that Eliot is leaving his apartment. He decides, now that the ice is broken, to be brave, and asks, “How was your date last night?”

Eliot scrunches up his face. “Disappointing. Terribly dull. An absolute bore.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Quentin lies. “Better luck next time.”

 

“Next time” turns out to be that same night, when Eliot knocks on his door again, same charming smile plastered to his face as he asks for another shower.

“I brought clothes this time,” he says, holding up an armful of fabric (and thank _god_ for small miracles, Quentin’s poor heart can only take so much).

Quentin thinks that, since he survived this same torture last night, he should be fully equipped to handle the ordeal of listening to Eliot’s shower tonight. To aid in this goal, he finds the least sexy book on his shelf and pours all his focus into studying it intently and _not_ fantasizing about what is going on just beyond that door.

“ _Watership Down_? What are you, a very sad child?”

“No, I--” he begins, but then he sees Eliot.

He is wearing pants, at least. But holy shit, they’re the tightest-fitting pants Quentin has ever seen, and for all intents and purposes he might as well not be wearing pants at all. And he’s still topless, so Quentin can’t help but run his eyes down the trail of dark hair that disappears into his jeans. It takes a moment for him to realize that Eliot’s talking to him.

“Sorry, what?” he asks, tearing his gaze away.

Eliot’s holding up two shirts. “Which one do you think I should wear?” he repeats slowly.

Quentin squints. They’re both very floral. One might have more blue in it?

“Honestly, they look pretty much the same to me,” he admits. He’s never known much about fashion, and they’re both very floral. Besides, there’s a lot to distract him. He can be forgiven for not giving the shirts his full attention, he thinks.

“Ugh, you’re _useless_ ,” Eliot sighs, and then pauses. “No, you’re not. You’re a very nice neighbor and I appreciate your shower generosity.” He swings the shirts over his shoulder and grabs his towel and caddy from the bathroom. He places a hand on Quentin’s shoulder. “Also, I used your soap. It’s atrocious, and you need to get a new bar.”

He does actually smell like Quentin’s soap. He’s also shirtless and right in front of Quentin. It’s a lot to absorb.

“It’s Irish Spring,” Quentin protests faintly, and is amazed the words even manage to make their way out of his mouth.

“Exactly,” says Eliot, and leaves.

 

Eliot’s back the next night for another shower.

“I brought you some soap,” he says, waving a bar. It’s fig and cedar scented and it looks indie and artisan, like something you’d buy at a farmer’s market.

“You shouldn’t have,” Quentin deadpans.

But he can handle this, tonight. He’s just back from teaching, so he’s got a natural distraction in the form of grading. And luckily Eliot emerges from the bathroom in pants _and_ a shirt, and yes, they both fit him _very_ well, but it’s still an improvement. But nevertheless, Eliot still makes Quentin blush -- this time by staring at Quentin with an intense frown, making him feel as if he’s under a microscope.

“Yes?” Quentin asks.

“Q,” Eliot asks slowly. “Can I borrow your tie?”

“This one?” Quentin looks down. It’s the one Julia gave him for his first day of teaching and therefore also his nicest tie (being the only one he didn’t pick out for himself). “Sure?”

“I’ll bring it right back,” Eliot promises, already unknotting it from Quentin’s neck. Their faces are very close.

“Alright,” whispers Quentin, and he can smell Eliot’s breath, minty and warm and intoxicating.

 

Eliot knocks on his door just after 11.

“Brought your tie back,” he says, slumping into the armchair and digging his fingers into the knot.

“How was the date?” Quentin asks.

“Terrible,” Eliot groans. “He was such a boor. Kept talking with his mouth open, and over and over about going to Harvard. At a certain point I was so bored I just asked him what Harvard was.”

“Yikes, sorry,” Quentin says, and looks back towards the kitchen. “Look, I’ve got a pot of cocoa going -- do you want any?”

“Awwww, Q,” Eliot coos, “you make _cocoa_? With whiskey, or just whipped cream and marshmallows?”

“It helps me calm down,” Quentin says defensively.

“I’d love some,” says Eliot, so Quentin pours him a mug.

 

It becomes a pattern -- Eliot has a date every night, a different guy each time. They chat about the prospective men and then, later each night, their foibles. Sometimes Quentin laments to him about his students, about his seminars. Eliot remembers to wear clothes most of the time. Quentin remembers not to lose his mind over the sight of Eliot’s bare skin (most of the time). Quentin’s crush doesn’t fade -- if anything, it explodes, fueled by new information -- but he does his best to keep it under wraps.

One night Julia comes over for dinner and while she’s chopping onions in the kitchen Eliot steps out of the bathroom shirtless, calling, “Q? Which shirt?”

“Which vest are you wearing?” Quentin asks.

“The gold one.”

Quentin’s awareness of fashion has grown exponentially through exposure to Eliot but, unfortunately, his instincts and understanding have not. “I think either would look nice?” he offers, because it’s true -- Eliot would look good in anything.

Eliot groans dramatically. “You’re no use.”

“Go for the red,” Julia pipes up.

Eliot whips around. “Oh,” he says. “Hello.”

“Hi,” says Julia.

Eliot turns back to Quentin. “So,” he says. “No cocoa tonight?”

“We can catch up tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Eliot shrugs, and sweeps out of the apartment.

Julia stares at Quentin. “What the fuck?” she asks.

“He’s my neighbor,” Quentin explains.

“What the fuck?” she repeats.

 

The next night, after another failed date (on Eliot’s part), and after many attempts to explain to Julia the nature of their acquaintanceship (on Quentin’s part), they have another mug of cocoa and Quentin asks, “Why so many dates? I’m not judging, I’m just-- curious. You’re out basically every night.”

“I need a boyfriend,” Eliot says.

“Why? You don’t like any of them, none of them meet your standards. Why not just wait and see if something happens … naturally?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Quentin shrugs, and desperately wishes he could rewind the past 30 seconds.

“I need a boyfriend now,” Eliot groans, and throws himself onto the couch. His lanky limbs splay out like pick-up-sticks. “Or at least by next weekend.”

“Next weekend? What for?”

“I… have this friend,” Eliot starts, eyes closed. “She keeps trying to set me up with people, and it’s really annoying, and I told her I had a boyfriend just to get her to shut up. And now I’m going to visit her next weekend, and she thinks I’m bringing my boyfriend, and…”

“He doesn’t exist,” Quentin finishes for him.

“Yup.”

“But why try to find an actual boyfriend? Even if you met the perfect guy tomorrow, would you even be close enough to introduce him to people by next weekend?”

“I thought I would, back when I started dating,” Eliot insists. “What do you mean, an actual boyfriend?”

“I just mean, wouldn’t it make more sense to ask someone to pretend to be your boyfriend?”

“Like who?” Eliot asks.

And Quentin, who is desperate and foolish and in far too deep, says the words he might most regret: “Like me. I could pretend to be your boyfriend.”

 

They make a plan.

The plan is this: They’ve been dating for six months. They met because they’re neighbors (an easy truth). They were instantly attracted to each other (true on Quentin’s part, at least), and Quentin had made the first move. They’re very much in love, etc etc.

Eliot will appease his friend, and Quentin will get a free little weekend road trip (and quality time with his crush).

(“You don’t even know him,” Julia had shrieked. “You’re just going to drive with him to the middle of nowhere? You need to text me the moment you get there so I know you’re alive.”)

Eliot’s friend is named Margo, and she doesn’t live in the middle of nowhere, precisely -- just a very small college town with nothing happening outside of the university.

“It’s dreadfully boring,” Eliot warns Quentin. “But Margo had to be where Fen is, so here they are.”

Margo and Fen live in a little cottage, with a yard and everything, and it’s almost too cute to be true. They’re waiting outside to greet Eliot and Quentin as they arrive -- Fen jumps excitedly and rushes forward to introduce herself to Quentin, while Margo wraps Eliot in a long, intense, wordless hug.

“They’ve got a lot of catching up to do,” Fen stage-whispers. “Let me show you to the guest room.”

It’s only as Quentin is hauling their suitcases up to the guest room that he considers the actual ramifications of their situation. The guest room has a full size bed, which is going to be very, very cozy when two adult men try to sleep in it.

“It’s lovely,” he says to Fen, because objectively it is, and he does his best to quell his heart’s furious pounding.

They all go out for dinner and it’s much more fun and relaxed, in a group setting. Fen tells stories about when she and Eliot dated, how they both realized their disinterest in the opposite sex at the same time. Margo weaves stories about misadventure after misadventure. Eliot pitches in when he can, adding details she’s forgotten and arguing small points with her. They order a second bottle of wine, and then a third. Quentin laughs so hard at the stories that he forgets that he’s only pretending, that he doesn’t really belong here at this table. It feels so natural, to be here beside Eliot with their hands intertwined, chatting and joking with Fen and Margo like they’re old friends.

They’re all tipsy when they get back from dinner and Quentin and Eliot stumble into the guest room.

“I guess we’re sharing the bed,” Quentin observes. “Is that okay with you?”

“What’s the alternative?” Eliot asks. “Sleep on the goddamn floor?”

Quentin retreats into the bathroom to change into his pajamas and brush his teeth. He stares in the mirror and whispers a quick _get it together_ to his own reflection, tries to shake the alcohol out of his system. He returns to the room and climbs into bed while Eliot takes his turn in the bathroom, drawing as close to the edge of the mattress as he can without falling off and turning to face the wall. In a few minutes he hears Eliot slide into bed beside him, and the lamp switches off.

“I like them,” Quentin says into the darkness. “Margo and Fen, I mean.”

“They’re good people,” Eliot agrees. A pause. “Thank you. For being here.”

Quentin’s not sure what to say -- “of course”? “I’d do it for any of my neighbors who I’d known for only a few weeks”? “I might actually be falling in love with you so naturally I’ll do anything I can to be close to you”?

Instead he just says, “Goodnight,” squeezes his eyes shut, and does his best to ignore the fragile few inches between himself and Eliot.

 

The second day of the visit is lazy and slow -- they all sleep in and go for a picnic in the afternoon. The group setting is helpful: Eliot, Margo, and Fen have a lot of catching up to do, and Quentin can just happily float alongside them. In the evening Fen makes dinner and they all gather in the living room afterwards with a bottle of wine.

Eliot swings an arm over Quentin’s shoulder on the couch. He smells nice, like the fancy fig and cedar soap he’d insisted Quentin pack, and it’s all too easy for Quentin to snuggle into him a bit. He tells himself it’ll give them credibility, but in reality, it’s too good of an opportunity to pass up. Quentin’s decided to make the most of this one magical weekend, even if it kills him.

Margo cocks her head at Eliot. “Have a smoke with me, El?” she asks.

“Anything for you, Bambi” he responds blithely, and the two of them go outside.

“So, Quentin,” Fen begins, conspiratorially, leaning forward in her chair. “It’s good to finally meet you. We’ve been hearing about you for months.”

This makes sense -- it slots in perfectly with the fake boyfriend timeline that Eliot had explained to him.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Quentin says, playing his part dutifully. “I’ve heard so much about you, too.”

“Mhmm?” Fen asks, but it’s not really a question. She looks at him, and he feels like she’s looking through him. “You know, I’m very protective of Eliot. Nothing like Margo, of course, but still.”

Quentin swallows. “Okay. That makes sense.”

Fen smiles, and her whole expression softens with it. “You seem good for him. From what I’ve seen, at least. I’d been worried about him a bit, but he seems so happy around you. I’m glad you guys found each other.”

Quentin’s heart blooms before he remembers that their relationship is fake. “Thanks,” he manages anyway. “I care about him very much. I want to be able to make him happy, at least.”

“You do a good job,” Fen reassures him. “I can tell that what you guys have is real. Just from the way you look at each other.”

Quentin knows his ears are burning red, and he looks down into his lap, trying to stifle the triumphant cheers inside his chest. “I guess it’s a relief for you,” he says, desperate to shift the conversation, “not to have to set him up anymore.”

Fen laughs. “Set him up?”

“You know,” Quentin starts, and then realizes that he’s almost certainly talking to the wrong person. “Sorry, was that Margo?”

Fen frowns. “I doubt it, Margo doesn’t have the patience to play matchmaker.”

The door opens, and Eliot and Margo return, just in time.

“Eliot,” Fen asks, “did you tell Quentin we were trying to set you up?”

“Oh,” says Eliot. “Shit.”

There is a long, awkward pause, all eyes on Eliot.

Finally Margo chirps, “Fen! Why don’t we go check on the kitchen.”

Fen looks confused. “What about the kitchen?”

Margo pulls her up by the elbow. “I think these kids need to have a talk,” she whispers, loud enough for everyone to hear, and then she bustles Fen out of the room.

Then it’s just Eliot and Quentin, and silence falls again. Honestly Quentin doesn’t really know what to think, let alone say. At last he manages to speak up to ask, “If they weren’t trying to set you up, why did you need a boyfriend?”

Eliot stares blankly at him. “Well,” he says slowly, as if trying to scrape together an answer on the spot. “Um. I can explain.”

“Oh my god,” Quentin breathes out, the weight of the realization sinking into him. “You didn’t need a boyfriend, did you?”

“Not… technically.”

Quentin runs a hand through his hair. “I’m such an idiot.”

“No, no, no,” Eliot says, all too kindly, and comes over to sit beside him.

“All those dates,” Quentin says helplessly, “you were actually looking for real love, and I totally misjudged the situation! I thought I was being helpful, and I just barged my way into your life --”

“Dear Quentin,” Eliot murmurs, “you’re so generous. And a fool.”

“I’m not generous. I’m selfish. I shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Eliot says, ever so gentle, and squeezes his hand. “I like you, Q.”

Quentin looks up in surprise, but Eliot’s expression looks genuine. “Really?” he asks, because he can’t actually fathom the fact that Eliot fucking Waugh, the man he’s pined after since he moved into his apartment, might actually return his feelings.

“Of course,” Eliot says, rolling his eyes. “Why do you think I’ve been trying so hard to seduce you?”

The cogs whirring in Quentin’s brain stick. “Seduce me?”

“Yes,” Eliot says, patiently but with a bit of annoyance, as if trying to teach a very basic concept to a very confused child. “You know, with the showers and the late night chats and a romantic getaway to the countryside?”

“Wait.” Quentin stands up and starts pacing, trying to process this new information. “Your shower wasn’t broken?”

Eliot raises his eyebrows. “For weeks and weeks? Honestly, Q, are you serious?”

“Maintenance can take a while,” Q mumbles.

“I pretended to forget my clothes. I pranced around your apartment in various states of tantalizing undress.”

“You told me you were preparing to go on dates with other people,” Quentin points out.

“Did that make you jealous?” Eliot asks hopefully.

Quentin pauses, bracing himself against the mantle, and mentally sorts through the facts. Eliot showed up at his door, lied about a shower, went shirtless whenever convenient, insisted he needed a boyfriend desperately. And Quentin had volunteered.

“What the fuck,” Quentin says, and then again, louder, “What the _fuck_ , Eliot.”

“I admit things got… a little out of hand,” Eliot concedes.

“You concocted the world’s most bizarrely intricate plan to… what? Get me out here?”

“Jesus Christ, no, don’t make it sound so sordid. I thought you were cute, that’s all.”

Quentin runs his hand over his face. “Why didn’t you just say something?”

“You might have rejected me,” Eliot pouts, and under that pout Quentin sees a small flicker of genuine vulnerability.

“You fucking idiot,” Quentin sighs. “I’ve been head over heels for you since I first saw you.”

Eliot freezes. “What? Really?”

“ _Yes_. Duh.”

Eliot clears his throat. “Quentin,” he asks, “can I kiss you now?”

“I really wish you would.”

In two steps Eliot is standing right in front of him. He hesitates slightly, cupping Quentin’s face surprisingly tenderly with his long, thin fingers. But Quentin doesn’t have time to hesitate, he’s been waiting for this far too long already, so he surges up and catches Eliot’s lips with his own.

It’s a hell of a kiss, and Quentin pours into it two years of long-distance pining, three weeks of pent-up sexual frustration. He kisses Eliot like it’s the last thing he might ever do, and Eliot kisses back just as fiercely. It’s definitely the hottest kiss Quentin’s ever experienced, and he can’t say he really expected anything less.

He backs Eliot towards the couch again and climbs onto his lap when Eliot stumbles into a seated position. He kisses down Eliot’s neck and moans when Eliot tangles his fingers into his hair. He undoes what feels like a million buttons in order to drag off Eliot’s vest, open his silk shirt and run his hands down the chest that’s taunted him so many times. Eliot’s squeezing his ass and nipping at his earlobe and Quentin wants nothing more than to bury his face in Eliot’s skin, to inhale him, to kiss away his gasps and swallow down his moans.

“Christ on a motherfucking cracker,” Margo yelps from the doorway. “I’m glad you two have resolved your issues, but could you at least go upstairs before you bang each other's lights out?”

 

This is what Quentin knows about his boyfriend:

  * He’s an emotionally stunted disaster
  * He’s surprisingly conniving
  * He’s really caring, even if he tries not to show it
  * Quentin loves him
  * He loves Quentin
  * He’s still the hottest person Quentin’s ever seen



**Author's Note:**

> title from Hozier's "Be," a thirsty line from a thirsty song for a fic about quentin coldwater dying of thirst


End file.
